


The difficulty with this conversation...

by scrub456



Series: A Specific Set of Skills [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Assassin John Watson, Awkward Flirting, BAMF John Watson, Gen, Mercenary John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock is a Mess, Smitten Sherlock, Story: The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14891549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: The first time Sherlock meets Jack, he's up a tree. Literally. It's not Sherlock who's up the tree, because that's just not on.Jack is.(OR: The one where John's a mercenary assassin)“The difficulty with this conversation is that it's very different from most of the ones I've had of late. Which, as I explained, have mostly been with trees.”― Douglas Adams





	The difficulty with this conversation...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



> I started this story AGES ago (think like, two years), after an anon on fanfic.net requested an assassin!John story, and left it languishing in my file of abandoned works. Thought I'd dust it off and polish it up for this prompt.

The first time Sherlock meets Jack, he's up a tree. Literally. It's not Sherlock who's up the tree, because that's just not on.

Jack is.

But Sherlock doesn't know that's his name. Not yet, anyway. Besides, names are the last thing he's concerned with at the moment.

Without saying a word, Jack is acting like he owns the tree, like he owns the whole goddamn grove (he doesn't), and that Sherlock is intruding on something vitally important and imperative and secret. And the truth is, that's exactly why Sherlock is there. He's meant to be trespassing, and he's livid that someone else has beat him to it.

The first thing Sherlock notices about the unwanted interloper is that he is stretched out like a great cat, using his knees and thighs to balance on his stomach on a low, wide branch. He's not using his hands to balance, because they are otherwise occupied.

With a sniper rifle.

Initially there is absolutely no indication that he is even aware of Sherlock's presence, which is infuriating sure, but what's worse is that it appears his mark is the same man Sherlock is here for. Sherlock wasn't aware there was a hit on the man, and that is quite frankly alarming, because Sherlock misses things occasionally, but this seems a bit glaring to have been overlooked.

"I don't know what it is you think you're doing up there, but you need to leave. Now." Sherlock is standing impossibly taller than usual, shoulders thrown back, black leather gloved fists clenched at his sides, Belstaff billowing menacingly, and eyes flashing a dangerously fierce green. He's still at a disadvantage though, because the other man is up a bloody tree.

Sherlock narrows his eyes as he assess the man in the tree. _Height: 5'7" or thereabout -- it's hard to tell because he's up that damn tree. Weight: Impossible to tell from this angle. Solidly built, but lean. Not fat, muscular -- not bulky, but noticeably so for his compact frame. Precisely cut blond hair, function not fashion. Between the worn boots, the grudgingly impressive balance, the obvious haircut, and the ease with which the man handles the weapon, he's clearly military. Former military._

Sherlock can tell he's been invalided out from the way he's leaning, more weight on his left hip, and the angle of his right shoulder. _Left shoulder injury. Career ending. Possible right leg injury, could be psychosomatic. Obviously still capable. He's up a tree for godsake._  
Sherlock is loath to admit he's intrigued, and he will never acknowledge that out loud -- mostly because he is on the verge of just an exquisitely devastating furor (devastating for tree man, not Sherlock, Sherlock plans on enjoying this thoroughly). He just needs to confirm, "Did Mycroft send you?" He's 93.7% certain he already knows the answer, but as the man's appearance has already proven, there's a margin for error.

But the man in the tree doesn't look like one of Mycroft's goons. They always wear suits. Always. Even when they climb trees with high power sniper rifles in tow. Sherlock calculates the odds of actually having a point of comparison for this particular situation, he can't help himself -- the results are staggering. He presses his fingertips to the sides of his head in frustration. He needs to focus and the arsehole ignoring him from the tree is not helping things.

Speaking of, tree man doesn't act like one of Mycroft's either. The agents always, _always_ acknowledge his presence with a nod and a curt "Mr. Holmes," no matter how much abuse he throws at them, or how difficult he makes their assignment. They may not care about him, but they acknowledge his existence, which is more than he can say for present company. And he's thrown so far off-kilter over it he's been reduced to swearing, even if only in his mind, and Sherlock abstains from the profane as it is the weapon of the weak and the defense of the feeble minded. Sherlock is neither weak nor is he feeble minded, damn it.

It's been five minutes. Precious time wasted that Sherlock should have been using to gather information, but instead he's locked in a battle of wills with a man who has yet to realize he's at war. Sherlock weighs his options. He could just go about his business, but without knowing the other man's intent, that still leaves the matter of a sniper with his rifle trained on the house. He runs through a list of a half dozen other options, but none of them are satisfactory either.

What he really wants to do is drag the other man out of the tree and make him... Now that's an idea. Sherlock judges the distance. He's tall enough, the branch is low enough, and the man's knee is bent just so. Sherlock thinks -- no, he knows -- he can reach the offending knee without even having to jump. But there is the problem of the gun. If the man truly hasn't noticed him, it's probably not wise to drag him out of a tree with gun in hand.

Sherlock is running out of time, and his bank of patience has long been spent. So, he makes a flash decision. It's decidedly not his most eloquent response, it's rather more of the knee-jerk, juvenile variety, but needs must. He plucks a pine cone from the ground, and he can list the sub-genus and species of the parent tree, but it's secondary to the fact that he's calculating mass times acceleration and projecting trajectory. The pine cone finds its mark, and Sherlock is impressed with the way it ricochets and what can be inferred about the musculature of the other man's hindquarters.

Except Sherlock doesn't allow himself to be impressed by hindquarters, he's really not attracted to _anyone's_ hindquarters, especially not the hindquarters of some stranger in a tree. And he really needs to stop thinking about the word hindquarters. _Dear god why is it so warm all of a sudden?_ And Sherlock is so occupied huffing indignantly and trying to discreetly loosen his scarf so he can get some bloody air that he almost misses the other man flick his wrist. _Almost._ Before he can register what's happened, he hears something rush past his ear and lodge itself into the tree trunk behind him.

Sherlock spins around to find a knife embedded into the bark of the tree. He examines the height of the strike and determines that had it been mere centimeters to the left, it would have found its mark in his neck. He reflexively covers the spot just over his carotid with his fingers and turns his attention to the weapon in question.

It's not a military knife, or a hunting blade. Not a butcher's knife or a steak knife. It's a penknife. But not even a Swiss Army knife. It's the cheapest variety store penknife Sherlock has ever seen, with a single dull collapsible blade on one end and a flimsy fingernail file on the other end. The blade is small enough that he can dislodge it without much effort, but the depth the blade achieved is noteworthy. This man is remarkably skilled.

Tree man is still watching the house carefully, but when Sherlock turns back to face him (he's forgotten that his fingers are still pressed to his intact carotid artery), he balances his rifle on the branch, and reaches up to remove headphones. Sherlock thinks at first that he's removing his communications headset, but suddenly he's aware that the other man is listening to music, and it's turned up so loud he can actually hear the lyrics to REM's "Losing My Religion." Sherlock has no idea who REM is, and he doesn't know the song, but he can make out the actual lyrics ( _Oh no I've said too much, I haven't said enough_ ), and if he can hear that, no wonder he was being ignored. But then how...

"Do it again, and I won't miss. It's not an idle threat, that's a promise." The words are spoken so softly, with so much control, Sherlock has to step nearer to be sure he's actually hearing the man in the tree speak.

"Why are you here?" He assumes his most imperious tone and pretends to ignore the threat, though in his head Sherlock is torn between the rare concern for his own well being and the desire to see exactly how far he can push the other man before he makes good on the threat. Something in the set of the man's jaw tells Sherlock that the warning was a one off, and he'd do well to remember it.

The other man sighs and takes his time turning off his music. "If the way you're making eyes at the gent sitting just beyond that window is any indication, I'd say we're here for the same reason."

"And what exactly do you know about that gen _t_?" Sherlock overemphasizes the snap on the _**t**_ to express his disdain. It's only when he feels the exaggerated movement of his jaw does Sherlock remember to move his fingers from his neck.

Very carefully the other man sits up, still gripping the tree with his legs, and lays his rifle across his thighs so he's not aiming it at anyone. For the moment. He turns sharp eyes -- a shade of blue Sherlock doesn't recognize, and he's not entirely sure why that matters -- on him. Sherlock has no doubt this is exactly how everyone else feels when he is observing. He doesn't care for that feeling at all.

"What is this?" He narrows his eyes at Sherlock. "The boss didn't say anything about talking. I took this job because it's a simple in and out. Same as every other time. Quick. Good payout. You going or what?"

“So you _are_ one of Mycroft’s.” It's a statement of fact. Obvious. No one in their right mind associates with Mycroft unless there is something to gain. It's why Sherlock is here after all.

“I am nobody to anyone. People have something they need taken care of. I take care of it. They pay me. I don't exist otherwise.” He fits the headphones back into place. “And right now, you not doing your job is keeping me from getting paid and disappearing again.”

“So, you're a mercenary.” Sherlock turns and paces away from the tree, his fingers steepled under his chin. “Fascinating.” And it is. _He_ is. Mycroft is nothing if not predictable, and Sherlock never calculated for this. “My brother,” he spins and glares at the man in the tree, “does not work with mercenaries. He has highly trained, ridiculously vetted, automatons to serve his every whim.” He rakes his eyes slowly, first down, then back up, the length of the other man’s body. He doesn't hate the view. “You don't fit.”

“Well thank christ for that.” He’s shuffling his position, and Sherlock should be watching the gun, but those damn denims leave nothing to the imagination. Tree man clears his throat and Sherlock silently begs the forest floor to open up and swallow him. Sinkholes are a real, increasingly common, threat. “If it means working with the likes of you on the regular, I'd turn this gun on myself.”

“An impractical form of suicide. The kickback alone would make success unlikely. Not to mention the unwieldy size of the…” Sherlock’s tirade is cut short by the other man's shocked bark of laughter. He's stunned. Taken entirely aback. A bit insulted. And alarmingly enchanted. This is becoming a problem. He needs to do what he came for.

“You're a sick bastard.” Tree man shakes his head and aligns his sights. “We doing this?”

Sherlock prefers the laughing, he thinks. He feels a great sense of injustice that he didn't get a full glimpse of the man's smile. It's most likely glorious. He's running out of time, but he stalls just a moment longer. “Your boss…”

“Not my boss.” The other man wipes his eyes with his hand and leans back in to look through the scope.

“You said…” Sherlock frowns. This man is insufferable. He needs more.

“No. I said _the_ boss. He is someone's boss, and that someone contracted me to do a job. Which I'm not doing at the moment.” He doesn't spare Sherlock another glance.

Bereft, Sherlock turns to face the house. He now has a six and a half minute window, seven if the hapless assistant left the deadbolt undone and the dog has been let out. “He wants the flash drive?”

“Finally,” tree man -- Sherlock should ask his name. Should he? Do mercenaries have names? -- mumbles to himself. “You get what you need, I clean up and deliver the drive, we both get paid. Think you can manage?”

Of course he can _manage._ Can Sherlock manage? Tree man has no idea what Sherlock is capable of. He squares his shoulders and starts off, then stops suddenly. “I'm not getting paid.”

“Bad luck, mate.” Adjusting the grip on his gun, the other man settles in. “Learn to negotiate. These guys are real morons. Fiscally speaking.”

Something uneasy niggles at the back of Sherlock's mind, but he quickly stamps it down, locks it in a mental lock box, and tosses it in a dusty, ignored corner of the Mind Palace as the overwhelming need to impress this intriguing stranger compels him. He folds his coat collar up and struts -- he can put on a good show too -- out from the trees and across the street to the unassuming town house.

 

* * *

 

It's a masterpiece. Sherlock is stunningly brilliant, and he knows it. He is in, confirms his suspicions, retrieves the drive, and pours himself a celebratory drink, in less than three minutes. All unknown to the man showering upstairs. He raises the glass to the window, knowing he has an audience, and tries to down it in one swallow. It burns like hellfire. He chokes and sputters, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow as he stumbles out the back door.

He stays hidden behind the security fence a few moments, just to catch his breath. Once he's moderately composed, Sherlock tosses his head back, drops ths glass in a neighbor’s bin, and saunters across the street as if he's not completely mortified.

“Do you perform children's parties too? I've got a mate whose daughter is turning six next week.” Sherlock flushes crimson at the taunt, but at least tree man is laughing again.

“I'll use small words so you can understand them. Fuck. Off.” Sherlock feigns boldness he doesn't feel. Tree man laughs harder and actually smiles at him. Yes. Glorious.

“You got what you needed?” The other man isn't moving from his position, isn't packing up. Perhaps he's waiting for Sherlock to leave, to make sure he's secure.

“Of course.” He holds out the flash drive. “And I believe you'll be wanting this.” He doesn't move any closer, despite the other man reaching out for it. “I want something in return.”

“For fuck’s sake. _Now_ you negotiate?” Tree man sighs. “What's your cut?”

Sherlock blinks a few times, confused. “I don't want your money.”

“Uhm…” He pushes himself up enough to turn those arresting eyes on him. Sherlock’s breath halts. “Look, I've got a specific set of skills. You need a job done?”

Sherlock shakes his head and clears his throat. “Your name.”

“My…” The other man looks stunned. Looks exactly as wrong footed as Sherlock feels. Has done this whole time. It's tree man's turn to compose himself. “You mean Sherlock Holmes can't figure it out?”

“H-how?” Sherlock covers the distance between them.

“I read the papers.” He smiles a lopsided, dangerous sort of smile and Sherlock knows he's completely lost. “You almost put me out of work a few times. Hafta know what I'm up against.”

“And you've never…” Sherlock places his hand over his heart.

“Nah. You and me, we're in the same business. People need help, we help them. I'm not a complete arse.” Tree man shrugs.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that. There isn't _anything_ he can say. He fumbles the flash drive and holds it up to the other man.

“‘Ta.” He shoves it in his pocket and leans back into his gun. “Jack.”

“What?” Sherlock chokes and blinks at him.

“Call me Jack.”

“It's not your real name.” Sherlock pouts. He _pouts,_ and he can't be arsed to care. He isn't supposed to be the one who doesn't know things. Who isn't the most clever person in the room.

“It's a name. People call me it. Sometimes.” He smirks.

“You know my name!” And damn it, he stomps his foot in indignation. How dare he? How dare, _Jack_?

“You're the idiot swanning around for the world to see.” Jack is making minor adjustments to his rifle, but otherwise he’s not moving. “I'm sure you'll figure it out, now we've met. I'll be expecting a break-in. Kettle’ll be ready.”

Sherlock wants to… He doesn't know what. He wants to drag Jack from that damn tree and punch that smirk off his face. He wants to unleash all the things he deduced, just level him to the ground.

But what he really wants to do is rather more indecent than anything he's ever wanted.

It's dangerous. Standing and staring up at Jack is the most peril Sherlock has ever known. He needs to escape. Run and not look back. He can't make himself move.

“One more thing.” Jack interrupts his terrible imaginations. Sherlock nods as language abandons him. “You verified it. _That's_ Oberstein?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice cracks and surely betrays him. He bites his lip hard.

“You're sure?” Jack goes completely still.

Sherlock sighs in frustration. “Don't be dull. Repetition is…” He jumps when the gun fires, a window across the street shatters almost simultaneously, and a woman inside the flat starts screaming. “Fuck. Oh christ. What did you… _Why_ did you… Fuck.” Sherlock is tugging his hair with one hand. He's trembling. Why the hell is he going into shock?

Jack’s gun is already efficiently stripped and packed away by the time Sherlock manages to look up at him. “That's the job. Clean up and deliver the drive.” He lowers himself from the tree, hanging by his strong arms before dropping down. He hefts his rucksack over his right shoulder.

“That man has dignitary immunity!” Sherlock realises too late he sounds rather hysterical.

“He's a spy. _Was_ a spy. Now he's someone else's problem.” Jack turns away and starts making his way through the trees. “You need to get gone.”

Sherlock stares at the townhouse another moment then turns to face Jack. He’s alone. Jack is gone, and Sherlock has less than two minutes to disappear himself, or there will be days of paperwork and harassment from Lestrade and his band of idiots.

Mycroft will pay for this.

He can't tell which path is Jack’s, so he picks the one that seems most concealed, ducks his chin into his collar and shoves his hands in his pockets. His pinkie brushes something cold and solid. He pulls it out and halts in his tracks.

Jack's penknife.

Oh. _Oh THIS_ will be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Jack will be back. I promise. ;-)


End file.
